


A Tigress upon the Waves

by AceQueenKing



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Hook-Up, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 04:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12674712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: She bargained for your armada, paid you subtle tribute. You were honored enough you let her and rewarded her with a touch of your fingers here, or there; at your most daring, you grasped her chin and thought,darling, I could just make love to you.And then she said, "What?" and you realized you had spoken aloud.





	A Tigress upon the Waves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alekth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekth/gifts).



Once, you rode the oceans. 

You were addicted to it once, the feel of salt biting upon your tongue, the whip of sea-air in your lungs. You road the oceans,  no horizon upon the border of your sight. It drove you mad, once. You road the ocean and the ocean, in turn, rode you. It turned your arms from pitiful sticks into muscles; your skin from a jaundiced yellow a glorious, tanned brown. You have gone from humdrum to amazing and little - if anything - has transformed you so much as the sea. It is so much like you, you realize now - Constantly moving, gyrating, damp as hell and twice as dangerous to board - oh yes, you are much like the ocean.

And so is your chosen companion for the evening.

Oh, she thought to fool you at first. She was meaker than you might think, a little kitten in place of a cat. That was what you thought when you saw her across the table the first time; her papers in perfect order, her outfit without a stitch out of place. This girl, you thought, had never seen the ocean. Here she was, an alleged heir to a far-flung shipping fortune. Spoiled, you thought. Soft.

But then - oh then.

Then she sat down and you saw that despite her perfect paperwork she had a spark of - something. Grit, perhaps, or sand; she stuck her numbers in your craw and made no apology. She ignored your subtle threats, your none-too-subte hints that colored her cheeks but did not move her heart.

In her, you discovered, not a cat but a tigeress. The yellow and purple of her robes were just as the stripes on the tiger.

She bargained for your armada, paid you subtle tribute. You were honored enough you let her and rewarded her with a touch of your fingers here, or there; at your most daring, you grasped her chin and thought,  _darling, I could just make love to you._

And then she said, "What?" and you realized you had spoken aloud.

A lesser cup of water would be embarrassed but you, tamed by the sea, know how to ride your waves.

You lean in close, cup her ear, and whisper, slowly, "Why I said I could just lap you up," and she blushes, her hand coming up to caress your face. You press a kiss to her ear that burns, taste the softest bit of salt on her skin, tangy with sweat.

You expect her to turn you down, politely; to rebuff you. But she does not, not this noble tigeress. She turns around, reaches up; her hand on yours, surprisingly charged. She stands, and leans forward, claiming your lips in a kiss. 

Tigress, oh tigress. It's a bold challenge but you're not so easily culled. You press her close, your knee going between her legs. Answer fire with fire, you think; she gasps against your mouth as you grind your knee into her clit. Take no prisoners, you think; that's the pirate way to shiver her timbers. 

She pulls her arms around your head, gasping softly as you lap at her mouth. She is on the defensive now, your tiger. Your hands lay siege to finely honed buttocks; she is soft, but not too soft - for a noble, you notice, she has some muscle under the skin. You are not surprised. 

"Please," she gasps between kisses; her mewlings are more a kitten than a tiger in her voice but oh, this is an act, you think. You pull away your knee and claim her instead with your hand, pressed up against her skirts. They're silk, you realize, soft and slippery-sweet, but you cannot help but wonder if her folds are just as soft. You've been with many women but never quite enough to dull the pleasure of seeing the female form; women are far more beautiful than men, with clams and mollusks and pearls, all awaiting your lips and tongue. 

You press your fingers between her legs, teasing her. It's a cruel thing to do, to frustrate a tiger, but you are a hunter, too, and you relish the way she gasps, softly, against your fingers as you brush her clit. She's needy, this one, her hips careering toward you, thrusting like waves upon the shore. She gives soft mewling cries and you press your head into her throat. You smile, and you know it is razor sharp. You press your claws inward and she moans, heavy and wet. 

She does not stop you as you slide down her body, your fingers grasping at bits of silk and thread. It's a lovely dress but she, oh she is far more lovely. She's a quick thing, too, like the morning tide; she slides up her skirts as you slide down, revealing the soft and silky folds of her garter and her slip.  You move them aside slowly, carefully; you don't want to ruin your first view of what is sure to be a magnificent shore.  

Her panties are lace, soft and delicate. It's a riviani pattern, you note, and praise her for her good taste; flowers guarding a woman's bud are perhaps a bit too on the nose, but the soft chevron waves of colorful lace - ah, that is poetry in motion. You slide her panties aside and grin in carnal delight at the revelation of her flower, the rainbow of the panties gliding down the shoreline of her legs as you slide them off. 

"Oh my," she says, puffing out little wanton breaths.

"You haven't seen anything yet," you promise, your eyes no doubt shining with promise. You look into her eyes and she looks back, her hands gently pressing upon your hair.  You will be a mess, you think; you will smell her on yourself all day and that thought turns you on almost unbearable. 

"I haven't done anything like this before," the little tiger cub says, but she doesn't break eye contact as you wink. Her hand tights, imperceptibly, and you think - she is the type who gets off on being daring. 

You like a daring one. You finally tear your gaze away and look, down, at the soft peach between your legs. That's what you think of it when you see her; she is just juicy, with soft plump lips that tuck over a small, tight berry. She's positively drenched in juices, you notice; and oh, you approve. You very much approve.

You part her folds with your tongue first, burying yourself in her like a wave upon the ocean, tasting, savoring; committing each and every bit of her taste to memory. She tastes salty but sweet, the slick folds of her cunt giving you copious amounts of ambrosia. She gasps at you, her legs almost buckling; you don't tear away, merely burying yourself deeper.

You are never one to go easy on a challenger.

You flick your tongue between her folds; carefully changing pressure, keeping her guessing. Like the waves, you are unpredictable. You force her to enjoy the journey, bring her up to a near-keening wail of desire only to back off, to let her ebb and flow. Her skirts are a rapturous mess at your ministrations; you know it will take her hours to get back into her perfect form and you love it, crave her. You want her to leave this meeting smelling like you, her hair pulled and frizzled from your fingers, her skirts wrinkled from your hands and your tongue.

And your hands, oh, your hands. You climb over her body, rapturously darting your hands over the sweat-slicked skin, bronzed and beautiful. You feel the tight pull of the muscles in her thighs as you spread her legs further apart, pull your face in deeper, deeper, your tongue hungering for her to the point she can barely stand.

And then, then, when she is all but begging your name - Isabela, Isabela - you press your finger into her, weighing anchor in her most sacred of spaces. It's a tight crevice, this one; you can only slide one finger in and out but you relish it, your tongue working her clit as your finger slowly pulls against her like the tides; in, out, in out. Gradually, she opens for you; first one finger, then two. You curl your fingers against the roof of her cunt as your tongue goes for the kill, pressing tight against her clit.

She comes. She comes like a hurricane, her juices crashing down upon your tongue so fast you have to hurry you claim them, as much as you can. Her cunt convulses around you, and you ride it. You love riding through hurricanes; its dangerous but always the moment you feel most alive, the moment you har your heartsong in the winds gliding through your hair.

You hold her as she comes down, panting. She slides away from you with some regret, letting you stand. Your face is wet with her juices; she notices, she cannot stop staring. You pull her close and kiss her, letting her taste herself, and she moans.

"Whatever you want for your armada, I shall pay it," she says, and you laugh, the negotiations all but forgotten. You kiss her again, your little tiger, and whisper in her ear once more. 

"Oh, my dear, I think we can work something out," you say, licking the rim of her ear in a carnal mark of what is yet to come. "Oh yes, I think this is the beginning of a long and profitable relationship."

She smiles, your tigress. "I will draw up the papers," she promises, and you grin.

"But first - kiss me," you pant, your hands winding through her hair. She moans and grins and pulls you to the table and you let her, oh yes.

Your tigress leans over you as you let yourself lay on the table, your short skirt surely so short that from this vantage she can see every part of you. You lick your lips and she leans forward and claims you, and you think - oh yes, this will be a nice working relationship indeed. 


End file.
